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There was a lot going on in his life. Over recent months a hole had opened up where all the good things used to be. Tom didn’t consider whether or not it was particularly healthy but he had decided not to dwell – not on his grief or his worries about his dad or the upheaval of starting at a new school in a new town. Instead he had decided to lean into the seventeen-year-old-boy of it all and focus on a girl.
Mary Bennet was the most amazing girl he’d ever seen. She seemed to move around the school in a manner that was utterly her own. He found it mesmerising. In classes she would put up her hand fairly regularly, her answers always astute, her questions always thoughtful. If a teacher called on her, her first instinct was often to be funny. It occurred to him that her little asides were the only thing making him smile these days.
She wore the white blouse and knee-length tartan skirt that all the girls wore (rolled up a few times at the waist, of course, so that the puritan hem sat mid-thigh), with a navy jumper and navy duffle coat when it got cold enough. It was certainly cold enough. Her stockings were also the regulation navy but where everyone else wore black school shoes, somehow Mary got away with eight-hole cherry Doc Marten boots.
When he went to hide out in the library, he’d often find her there. One morning he’d even breathlessly watched her through the gaps in the library shelving, just a few numbers up in the Dewey Decimal 800s, where she searched for English poets while he scanned the Americans. Her head was tilted on an angle as she read the spines, her green eyes a little bit magnified behind her round glasses. She had been so focused on the titles in front of her, she hadn’t once glanced through the gaps above the books to notice him.
Sometimes in class he would see her ink-stained fingers moving rapidly, rehearsing a complex piano piece against the edge of her desk. Other times she would be utterly still, her eyes closed, muttering to herself over a heavily crossed-out page of what looked like an attempt at verse or lyrics. He imagined her sounding out words and phrases in her mind as he had used to love doing too before everything went wrong.
–
There was a new kid in her year. Mary had tried to be cool about him since the day he’d shown up midway through the previous semester but, who was she kidding, she wasn’t cool about anything. He was tall and lean, with dark brown eyes and curly dark hair that didn’t always seem to behave the way he wanted it to. There was a melancholy about him that she immediately recognised and that everything within her yearned to comfort. Then came the day he stood up in English class and recited, from memory no less, an absolutely perfectly felt rendition of a poem no seventeen year old boy should have been able to access emotionally. She suspected the scene would haunt her until she herself was old and grey.
The assignment had felt stupid when their young teacher (who, despite her grammar school posting, they all suspected was deeply inspired by Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds) had handed it out, but now as the warm steadiness of his voice washed over her, his vowels broad and level in his Sheffield accent, she could see why assigning a task like this might be worthwhile.
Outside the morning had been cold and overcast and the classroom had that soporific over-heated closeness that made everyone feel like they had left their brain still tucked up in bed. He had walked unhurried to the front of the classroom, the warmth of his dark brown curls set-off by the dusty grey-green of the chalkboard at his back. His dark eyes had searched the room and settled on her, seated in the back row towards the left. She had felt the corner of her mouth tip involuntarily upward as if some deep part of her wanted him to know she was on his side. His own mouth had moved ever so slightly in response, as if saying back to her, I see you rooting for me, this one’s for you. And he recited the entire three stanzas to her and her alone, the rest of the classroom fading for her as she imagined it must have faded for him.
“This is When You Are Old by William Butler Yeats,” he said simply, and began.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Mary wanted to know, with a terrible urgency, if she too had a pilgrim soul inside herself. She hoped she did. She wanted it to be loved by someone like this curly-haired boy who made the room disappear and– was that a tear blurring the faint blue lines of her exercise book?
His dark brown eyes stayed fixed on her as he finished reciting and she attempted to surreptitiously dash the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. The corner of his mouth tipped up further, almost a smile – sad, but all for her.
One by one, students had continued to move across the room, recite their poems, sit down again. It went by like stop-motion until it was her turn. She pushed herself out of her chair, moved to inhabit the space where the boy had stood some minutes before and felt deeply, inescapably raw to find his eyes already on her. She wondered if she regretted the poem she’d chosen now that she’d be pouring it out entirely for him. No, she thought. It feels true somehow.
“My poem is Heart to Heart by Rita Dove,” she announced to the boy alone.
His chin was lifted, his gaze warm.
She felt emboldened by the singularity of his attention and started to speak.
It's neither red
nor sweet.
It doesn't melt
or turn over,
break or harden,
so it can't feel
pain,
yearning,
regret.
It doesn't have
a tip to spin on,
it isn't even
shapely—
just a thick clutch
of muscle,
lopsided,
mute. Still,
I feel it inside
its cage sounding
a dull tattoo:
I want, I want—
but I can't open it:
there's no key.
I can't wear it
on my sleeve,
or tell you from
the bottom of it
how I feel. Here,
it's all yours, now—
but you'll have
to take me,
too.
What kind of intimacy was this – the kind where, before they’d even exchanged a word of conversation, the two of them had recited love poems to one another?
The blurred sense of time neither passing nor staying still stuck with her, the classroom emptying before she’d quite gathered her wits. She groped around on the floor under her desk for her badge-covered canvas satchel and wandered blindly into the almost deserted corridor.
The boy was waiting, leaning against the wall opposite the classroom. When she appeared he stood straighter, adjusting the strap of his backpack.
“You’re Mary,” he said. “I’m Tom.”
His accent made her name sound unfamiliar to her ears, like something new.
“Thank you,” said Mary.
“What for?” he asked.
“Making me feel something at school.”
The curve of his mouth could almost certainly be described as a smile now.
She smiled back. “That doesn’t usually happen.”
His expression turned curious. “Did I even see evidence of tears?”
She tried to look play-menacing. “You breathe a word of that to anyone–”
He shrugged morosely. “Who would I tell?”
Mary remembered being new. It was awful. It had already been a few months. She wondered if it was too late to try and protect him from the worst of it.
“I don’t suppose you’d want to join a club?”
Tom narrowed his eyes.
“We call ourselves the Dead Poets Society.”
He yanked on one of the wooden toggles of his very Knox Overstreet-esque duffle coat. “It was that or The Paddington Bear Society, right?”
She grinned. “Truthfully we realised that dead only was a bit reductive. We should probably call ourselves something else.”
“The Mostly Dead Poets’ Society? Miracle Max would approve.”
“Yes!” Mary pondered it. “I like that,” she said. “Maybe I’ll suggest it to the others”
“I suppose I better join then, if you’re maybe going to consider using my name.”
“We sit in the undercroft at lunch, behind the rhododendrons.” She paused, angling her body down the hallway. “You could come with me now if you want?”
“Who’s we?” he asked, taking a tentative step in the direction she was leaning.
Mary felt a little thrill, walking companionably down the hallway with Tom. “John, Ann, Hurst, Caroline, Charlotte, Louisa, sometimes Will.”
“And what do you do?”
She huffed out a laugh. “I suppose I should warn you that we’re a bunch of nerds who love poetry and music. Now’s your chance to run.”
He turned his head to look at her as they walked. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Should I take that as a tacit confession of your own nerdiness?” she asked.
Tom shrugged. “You’ll work that out in time, I suppose.”
“And nerdiness is a spectrum after all.”
The grin that took over his face revealed a whole new Tom.
He was beautiful. Mary couldn’t look away.
“What was it that made you change schools?” she asked before she realised how intrusive it sounded. “I mean, only if you want to tell me.”
Tom looked down at his shoes on the linoleum as they walked. “I knew that poem because my dad recited it at my mum’s funeral five months ago.”
Mary stopped walking and Tom stuttered to a stop a few steps ahead, turning back to look at her.
“Since then we sold the farm, packed my older brother off to university and moved to London.”
“Oh, Tom,” she said. “I am so, so sorry.”
He nodded his thanks, lips pursed, eyes back on the ground.
“I would never say I know what you’re going through, but my dad died last year. It sucks.”
She heard the hitch in his voice as he agreed that yeah, it did suck and, without thinking, she dropped her bag and half tackled him into a hug, throwing one arm around his waist, the other around his neck.
His arms immediately came around her. He let out a shuddery exhale and bent a little at the knees so he could press his face into the crook of her neck. His body now fully encircled her, his large hands splayed out across the curve of her shoulders. She felt that familiar tension of trying to fight tears just leave him and she held on tightly as a sob wracked through him.
“I feel like this is going to be a weird relationship,” Tom managed to say some minutes later, his voice still husky with emotion.
Mary laughed. “Weird can be good, though, right?”
He nodded, his cheek still resting against her shoulder. “Weird can be very good.”
“Want me to let go of you?” she asked.
She felt his arms tighten slightly around her.
“Not yet.”
–
Tom turned out to fit right in with the other Dead Poets.
If Hurst finding out that he’d grown up on a farm with horses had proposed his acceptance, the ritual Ann had established of the weekly CD swap confirmed it.
Discmans out, CD wallets open, they sat in a hushed circle, each solemnly selecting a CD (complete with liner notes) to pass to the person on their left. The recipient would then carefully tuck the loaned liner notes into a blank space in their wallet and dutifully load the disc into their Discman for immediate consumption in their next study period or on the bus ride home. The intention was shared enjoyment, inviting one another into the music that resounded perpetually between one another’s ears. The insurance was the approximate ten bob investment that each one had made in purchasing the CD in the first place.
There were rules:
1. No scoffing.
2. The album had to have been released within the last ten years.
3. No Limewire downloads compiled on home CD burners. Artists deserved support.
4. The recipient had to make a firm commitment to listen to the whole album and not (immediately) judge.
5. The recipient also had to make a firm commitment to read through the entire liner notes and carefully consider the layout, artwork and narrative arc of the album, noting that this could be a more arduous task for some albums than others.
6. The recipient would then return to the group with conclusions ready to be shared on best track, worst track, best lyric, worst lyric and a suggestion about how the group might categorise the album based on the Dead Poets’ own complex and ever-evolving system.
Tom had missed the return of the preceding week’s loans and the accompanying commentary the previous day while he and Mary had spent the whole lunchtime hugging in the hallway.
Mary fished East 17’s Walthamstow out of her satchel and handed it to Louisa. “I’ll have to give you my thoughts on this one later but I’m admitting now in front of God and all of you that I find Deep disturbingly hot.”
John nodded vigorously. “Come on, just give us your worst lyric of the album. We all know it comes from that song.”
Mary covered her face. “I can’t even bring myself to say it.”
“Toassssssst,” said Charlotte mischievously, to a collective shudder.
“Right.” Ann stepped in. “We have new CDs to exchange, you lot. Walthamstow is in the past.”
“Thank goodness for that,” said Caroline dryly. “Council Flat Erotica”
“For the record, I am feeling very judged,” said Louisa lightly.
“What do you want?” said Hurst. “Mary admitted it was hot. So did Caroline, in her way.”
Louisa shrugged. “I suppose.”
“Alright,” said Ann with the air of a teacher reining in a mildly unruly class. “Tom, you're new but I understand you’ve had this all explained.”
“Thoroughly, thanks,” he said, grinning. He took a CD and liner notes out of his CD wallet and passed it to Mary who had carefully orchestrated her spot to his left in the circle as she had promised him beforehand that she would. They were both profoundly aware of the intimacy of this kind of sharing and she told him she wanted to act as a somewhat more familiar buffer for his first go.
Though she hadn’t mentioned it to him, she also secretly loved the idea of Tom choosing an album just for her. It felt like the only time she’d be able to guarantee him she’d be the recipient and she couldn’t wait to see what he’d selected.
Their fingers brushed as he handed her the disc, nestled inside its single page liner notes. “Not too much extra work to do for this one,” he said.
“Disintegration. The Cure,” she said, opening the single page wrapped around the disc. “This music has been mixed to be played loud so turn it up,” she read with a grin.
Tom shrugged, smiling at her. “Do you like The Cure?” he asked.
“She made me listen to Wish last month,” said Caroline. “So I think you can take that as a firm yes.”
He gave Mary an approving look. “Great choice. So many good songs on Wish.” He indicated the CD in her hands with a tilt of his chin. “You don’t already have that album?”
Mary shook her head, so pleased to have found this little connection between them. “But I’ve wanted to listen to this one for ages. Thank you.”
All eyes turned expectantly to Mary as Charlotte, seated on her left, held out her hand.
She’d given more careful consideration than usual to what she’d share this week. Tom wouldn’t be the one listening but he’d certainly notice whatever she chose.
Mary drew the brightly coloured album out of her CD wallet and passed it on.
“Ohh,” said Charlotte, turning it over in her hands. “This is pretty new, right?”
“What is it?” asked John, adjusting his specs on the other side of the circle.
“It’s Post by Björk,” said Tom, sounding distinctly impressed. “I loved her first album, haven’t got to listen to that one yet.”
Mary tried to hide how chuffed she felt to have scored two points with Tom. “You can sit on my left next week if you want,” she offered and he nodded.
Charlotte passed Definitely Maybe by Oasis to Ann who passed Diva by Annie Lennox on to Hurst. Hurst pulled out INXS Kick for Louisa who had selected Everything Changes by Take That to hand to Caroline. Caroline entrusted Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morisset to John and John passed Twisted by Del Amitri to Tom.
Tom turned the blue and white liner notes over in his hand and nodded. “Thanks, John. Keen to find out what these guys are all about.” He cast his eyes around the circle. “This is a pretty eclectic selection.”
“Last week Charlotte made me listen to M People,” said Caroline. “Consider yourself warned, Tom. This can go sideways fast.”
“You seem to be forgetting the no scoffing rule,” chided Ann. “The principle stands in perpetuity, Caro.”
Tom shrugged. “Elegant Slumming has its charms. I’m not opposed to a bit of a dance around the kitchen to One Night in Heaven if the evening feels right.”
Mary found herself beaming at this revelation and Tom caught her eye. “You too, Mary?”
“It would be Groove is in the Heart for me,” she replied, enjoying the way Tom was grinning at her. “Or Walking on Sunshine.”
“Don’t overlook The Key the Secret,” said John. “What about you, Charlotte?”
Charlotte laughed. “D:Ream Things Can Only Get Better. C’mon, Caro, you’ve got one.”
“Ugh, alright. Fantasy by Black Box.”
“Love that song!” said Louisa. “And I lose it whenever Rhythm is a Dancer comes on. What about you, Ann?”
“Show Me Love by Robyn. I defy anyone to stand still when that’s playing. I’m dying to know yours, Hurst.”
Hurst eyed them all defiantly. “Montell Jordan’s This Is How We Do It.”
They all fell about laughing.
–
After lunch, Tom and Mary had English again.
“Sit next to me?” he asked as they shuffled down the hall toward the classroom.
Mary glanced sideways at him and caught the hopeful vulnerability in his expression.
“Of course,” she replied, smiling shyly.
As soon as they took their seats and the lesson started, Tom surreptitiously ripped a page out of his exercise book, wrote something hidden by his hand, and then, feigning nonchalance, slid it across the desk in front of her.
Confession: I have been having a romcom moment. They have a 3 bob-3 movies-3 nights deal on at Blockbuster. Ru into it?
Mary glanced down to read the note and hid her smile behind her hair.
She wrote: I could be into it.
He replied: Will you come over and watch one or two or three with me on Saturday? I can promise excellent cheese on toast.
Mary subtly shook her head. Cheese on screen and on toast!
Tom feigned shock, taking up his pen with a wounded air. I will not stand idly by and allow romcoms to be mocked.
–
Tom didn’t quite know how he’d approach her the next day. How did one casually say hi to the girl who had given you the best and most timely hug of your life, welcomed you into her apparently very cool nerdy friendship group, written secret little notes with you in class, and then agreed to watch romcoms with you on the weekend?
He was thumbing through a poetry anthology in the library before school when she approached him.
“So I was thinking we could just be people who hug,” were her first words to him. “I like hugs, you obviously need them. I don’t mind at all. What do you say?”
It certainly sounded like an appealing arrangement.
“Really? Yes, thank you,” he said, trying to work out if there might be scope for more. He glanced over his shoulder, eager to test the waters. “But aren’t you worried people will think I’m your boyfriend?”
“No.” She huffed out a laugh. “Who’d believe someone like you would, you know, like someone like me?”
Tom opened his mouth to reply then closed it again.
“See?” she said lightly, taking his lack of answer as confirmation.
He hurriedly shook his head. “No, Mary. Now I’m going to have to say something awkward and then you might change your mind about hugging me and I really don’t want you to change your mind about that.”
She cocked her head to one side. “You’d have to make it pretty awkward. Turns out you give really good hugs.”
“Ok,” he said, smiling at her admission. “Then I’ll tell you at least one person who’d believe it.”
She looked back at him defiantly, as if daring him to name a name.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you about this getting awkward.”
She scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest.
He sucked in a deep breath. “Mary, it’s me. I like you. Like, like you, like you.”
He would have laughed at how ridiculous that sentence felt to say out loud if it hadn’t been for the fact that it took all of his courage to get it out, and that Mary’s eyes instantly grew very wide.
“Tom,” she said warningly. “Don’t joke about that.”
Tom slowly shook his head. “I’m not joking, Mary. I’m not brave like this usually, but I hated hearing you doubt anyone would like you. We don’t know each other that well yet, I know. But finding you here? Hearing the things you say in class? Watching you practise piano on the edge of your desk and try to write poems? Even before yesterday, just the idea of you and your cherry Docs was pretty much the only thing in my entire life keeping me sane.”
He watched as her skeptical expression softened into something still sad but quietly warm and pleased.
“I’m a wreck right now, Mary,” he said, trying to be as honest as he could. “But there’s no version of me that could have shown up at this school and not instantly liked you.”
She gave him a sad little smile. “I’m a bit of a wreck too,” she whispered. “And I was trying to be all cool about the hugging thing, but honestly I’ve liked you since the first day you got here.”
He reached out a hand, gently scooping it around her slender waist, using his arm across her back to propel her into his embrace.
Her hands went first to the wooden toggles of his navy duffle coat.
Tom tipped his forehead to hers. “I should warn you, I’m not sure I’m always that fun to be around.”
Mary gave him a sad smile. “I’m barely ever fun.” She pulled back and took his hand, leading him to the beanbags in the sequestered reading nook in the corner of the library.
“Untrue,” said Tom, trailing obediently after her. “The only fun I’m having is when you’re around.”
She sank into a huge overstuffed brown corduroy beanbag and he sank down beside her. The foam ball stuffing reacted by wedging them right up against one another which neither of them minded at all. He slid his arms around her shoulders and pulled her against his chest where she snuggled in.
Tom felt dizzy from the clash of emotions within. “My house is a totally depressing place to be. Just so you understand the appeal of the syrupy romcom just now.”
“Makes sense,” murmured Mary. “My mother’s always been a nightmare but she’s worse than ever since Dad.”
“When you come over we’ll just hide out in my room. Dad let me put my own TV and VHS in there. Probably because it saves him from having to work out what to say to me.”
“Grieving sucks,” she said. “We can’t make it go away. We probably wouldn’t want to even if we could.” She tried to sit up a little so she could look him in the eye. “What if we just try to look after one another in it?”
“It’s not like anyone at home has anything left.” He shrugged. “Looking after each other actually sounds really nice.
“Yeah.” Mary looked thoughtful. “I don’t hate the idea at all.”
Tom cast a quick glance round the empty library. “And I know it’s probably not ideal to take your life lessons from romcoms but–” he lowered his voice, “apparently, kissing a beautiful girl can be a good way to take your mind off things.”
Mary made as if to struggle out of the beanbag. “Right,” she said, pushing herself up, palms on Tom’s chest. “Where would I find me one of those?”
Tom attempted to look rejected while Mary laughed down at him, her loose hair falling like curtains around her face. Then her gaze turned serious. “I suppose I should admit that I haven’t really had a lot of experience with that sort of thing,” she said softly.
“Neither,” Tom whispered and she could see it confirmed in the awed way he was watching her.
She lowered herself carefully, trying not to let the unwieldy momentum of the beanbag take over.
Tom reached up, slipping his fingers into her hair just above her ear. “You are beautiful, Mary,” he murmured.
Leaning closer now, Mary took in the depths of his brown eyes, the light freckles across his pale cheek, the fullness of his lips.
She fell inexorably into him and his hand flexed in her hair, the warm pads of his fingers against her scalp matching the warm bulk of his body beneath her in the cold library.
His other hand came up to touch her cheek as her lips met his, the simultaneous softness and electricity of the contact more than she could have ever imagined a kiss could be. The longer she held the contact of his mouth on hers, the greater the sensation that she was internally melting into liquid gold.
When at last she lifted her head, breaking the kiss, she found Tom gazing breathlessly up at her, a dazed little smile on his face.
“God, Mary,” he said softly, his eyes searching hers. “Now I get why people remember their first kiss.”
She beamed down at him. “Same,” she whispered back.